Since then Margaret has covered the war with Iraq, the death of Saddam Hussein, the tsunami in Southeast Asia, Hurricane Katrina, the election of not one but two new popes, the war against terror, the rise of ISIS, the election of Barack Obama, the legalization of gay marriage, the eradication of Osama bin Laden by U.S. Navy SEAL Team 6, and countless gun massacres—Sandy Hook Elementary, San Bernardino, and Aurora, Colorado. Margaret has announced the deaths of Robin Williams, Whitney Houston, Prince, Philip Seymour Hoffman, James Gandolfini, Heath Ledger, Carrie Fisher, David Bowie, and Michael Jackson. She has covered Darfur, Boko Haram, the war against Ukraine, the civil war in Syria, the earthquakes in Haiti and the Philippines.
Margaret has had a good run. She does her job faithfully to the very best of her ability each and every night. But now she’s both tired and energized: tired of being tethered to the news cycle, energized by the prospect of joining the civilian world.
Lee had a hard time finding Margaret’s replacement. The network wanted another woman, preferably a woman of color. Lee enlisted Margaret to help him watch the clips, and even she had to admit, none of them seemed ready. The top two contenders were Stephanie Kane, an anchor with the CBS affiliate in Anchorage, Alaska, of all places, and Catherine Bingham, who currently anchored the evening edition of ESPN’s SportsCenter. Margaret leaned toward Catherine. Somehow professional sports seemed closer in tone and tenor to the news of the world than anything happening in the happy, peaceful Pacific Northwest. Although Stephanie did have the advantage of being half Inupiat.
And Stephanie it was! Lee made the announcement, and Margaret rallied behind his decision. “It doesn’t matter if she isn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. She’ll grow into the job.”
Two broadcasts left. Roger in wardrobe asks Margaret what she wants to wear for her final broadcast.
“Black,” Margaret says. She hasn’t ever been allowed to wear black, but Margaret feels it’s fitting for her final broadcast.
“Oh, please,” Roger says. “How funereal. How somber and depressing. I thought for sure you would go with purple. Or silver and gold sequins. Or a T-shirt that says Cash Me Outside How Bah Dat.”
“Black,” Margaret says. It’s a color that will make a statement, it has gravitas, it indicates finality.
“Black it is,” Roger says. “Let’s hope they don’t complain upstairs.”
“What are they going to do?” Margaret asks. “Fire me?”
One broadcast left. On Friday afternoon when Raoul drives Margaret to the studio, she’s nervous. Nervous about what? she wonders. Despite her insistence that she did not want any fuss made, she knows that the producers have assembled photos for a ninety-second montage to end the broadcast. This will follow the sixty seconds they have allotted so that she can say something meaningful to leave with her viewers.
Something meaningful.
It’s in Margaret’s nature to be overprepared, but every time she has sat down to figure out what this something meaningful should be, she has drawn a blank. She doesn’t want to make too big a deal out of her departure. After all, she only reports the news; she’s not a pediatric brain surgeon like Drake, saving lives every single day.
She hopes that inspiration will come before airtime. She doesn’t want to be sentimental; she can’t grow weepy. The fact is, she has a hard time believing this is her last broadcast. If something were to happen at four forty-five in the afternoon on Friday, November 10—if the president declared war on North Korea, if suicide bombers infiltrated Disney World, if Prince George and Princess Charlotte were kidnapped from Kensington Palace—then Margaret would stay planted in her chair for weeks. But then the next story would break, and the next. The news is as relentless as the ocean. There will never be a quiet, uneventful time to exit. She has to do it tonight, no matter what.
Was there any doubt? Roger has chosen perfectly. Margaret is to wear a black silk Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. It’s simple and elegant yet has no shortage of sex appeal. Margaret loves Diane as a person and counts her as a friend. One of the privileges of Margaret’s career has been all of the legends she has met.
As far as jewelry goes, Margaret opts for only pearl earrings—and the Cartier tank watch that was a long-ago present from Kelley. She has worn it for every single national broadcast. Part of the reason is pragmatic (she needs to know the exact time), part is style (the watch became a Margaret Quinn fashion statement), and part is symbolism. She means to honor Kelley by wearing the watch, even as she knows that pursuing her career was what undid their marriage.
She knows Kelley will be watching her tonight from home—along with Mitzi, Kevin, Isabelle, and the kids. Patrick and Jennifer will be watching in Boston with the three boys. Barrett, Pierce, and Jaime will have no interest in watching Mimi deliver the news; they’ll fidget and excuse themselves for the bathroom, where they will sneak in a few minutes of Minecraft. This makes her smile and relax. There’s nothing like grandchildren to keep one humble.
The network is expecting to double their ratings. Normally, Margaret garners four to five million viewers; Lee is hoping for ten million tonight. It’s not the idea of five million extra anonymous viewers that makes Margaret nervous. It’s only knowing that the people she cares about are watching.
Especially Kelley.
She wants to do a good job for Kelley.
When she’s ten minutes out, she stops by the greenroom. Drake is there, chilling a Rehoboam of Dom Pérignon. It’s equal to six bottles of champagne and costs as much as a vacation in Hawaii but he insisted it was either the champagne or a surprise party, and Margaret opted for the champagne.
“Where’s Ava?” Margaret asks. She wants to kiss Drake, but she can’t smudge her lipstick. She wants to hug Drake, but she can’t wrinkle her dress. Instead she squeezes the heck out of his hand.
“She and Potter are on their way,” Drake says. “They had last-minute surprise visitors, and I guess these visitors are coming to the studio as well.”
“Oh dear,” Margaret says. She wonders if the surprise visitors are Patrick and Kevin. As lovely as that would be, it’s unnecessary. Margaret does not want this to be a big deal!
“It’ll be fine,” Drake says. “Oh, look, here they are now.”
Margaret turns to see Ava and Potter enter the greenroom. Behind Ava is a young woman Margaret is sure she doesn’t know, and behind the young woman is… well, for a second Margaret’s heart stops.
It’s… it’s… Kelley. No, it can’t be. But it looks for all the world like a young Kelley Quinn, Kelley when Margaret first saw him, standing by the Angel Tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s Kelley, forty years ago.
“Look, Mom,” Ava says. “Bart is here!”
Bart! Margaret thinks. Her heart resumes its regular activity. Margaret hasn’t seen Bart since the previous Christmas, right after he got back from Afghanistan. Now his hair has grown out and he’s gained back all the weight he lost.
“Bart,” Margaret says, gathering him up in a hug despite the inevitable dress wrinkles. “You gave me a fright. You look… exactly like your father did when he was your age. I had a bit of a senior moment. I thought you were him.”
“Time to retire!” Drake says.
Margaret takes another moment to look at Bart. He’s the spitting image of Kelley—it’s uncanny—whereas Patrick and Kevin both favor Margaret’s side of the family. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m honored you came.”